


Medal

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-29
Updated: 2018-10-29
Packaged: 2019-08-09 08:44:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16446590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: The tournament’s over, and Kíli’s thrilled.





	Medal

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ktime](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ktime/gifts).



> A/N: Fill for ktime247’s “7 tournament Kili/Dwalin” request on [my tumblr prompt list](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/post/179060905990/prompt-list).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Fíli laughs him with him right to the bottom of the step, elbowing his side and pouring over every detail—the pulsing crowd around them is still clamouring with memories. The tournament was _amazing_. There will be talk of it for weeks, probably months, maybe even years. Only half the place is leaking out of the stands—the rest are still sitting in their seats, chattering with friends and maybe half-hoping for an encore.

Kíli knows it’s over. And for once, he’s not disappointed. Thorin and Balin wouldn’t let him enter, citing age and the importance of future-rulers not having head wounds, which seems ridiculous given all they’ve already gone through. But getting to watch turned out to be more than enough fun—it filled him with a surge of excitement, bristling anticipation and adrenaline, and now he’s just dying to let it out. When they reach the dirt field below, Fíli asks, “’You going in?”

“Not even a dragon could stop me.” Kíli even winks, and Fíli laughs, shoving his arm again and clapping his back. 

Then they’re splitting up, Fíli rushing off to catch up with Bofur, and Kíli practically races the rest of the perimeter. By the time he reaches the changing room, bruised combatants are already trailing out. The deeply injured have already been taken away, but most of the dwarves he passes have at least one scrape or another, bits of blood and dirt caked onto the armour they carry with them. Kíli ducks into the changing room to find only six dwarves left. There were far more participants originally, but most were weeded out in the earlier rounds, and those left are the closest to the champions. The champion herself is just finishing doing up the laces on her tunic, her armour neatly stacked on the bench beside her. She flashes Kíli a grin when she sees him, batting her thick eyelashes. She’s a gorgeous creature—a big, bulky thing with a shaved head and piercing eyes. But Kíli’s heart’s already taken, and he smiles back only to walk right past her.

He hears her sigh and leave. Another dwarf follows right behind her, leaving four. The one Kíli wants is right in the back, facing away, sitting on a bench and pulling off his boots. They’re the only piece of metal left: everything but his trousers has been stripped away. Their brown material is unusually tight against his thick thighs, glued in place with sweat. Dwalin’s entire body is slick with it: his hard muscles glisten in the candlelight, still flushed red from exertion. Kíli halts when he reaches him. For that first moment, Kíli’s silently transfixed, just ogling the way Dwalin’s enormous chest heaves with each hard breath. Dwalin kicks out of his second boot, setting bare feet down onto the floor, then looks up at him. In Kíli’s peripherals, he notes the last remaining participants all trickling away. It’s a stroke of luck for him: he hadn’t wanted to order them all out, but he would’ve. 

He needs to be with Dwalin alone, because as soon as he gets his congratulations out, he’s going to push Dwalin back, climb right on, and ride that rippling strength with everything he’s got. He starts, already breathless, “That was _amazing_! That parry you did in the second match—it sent that poor fool halfway across the stadium! And then when you charged after, and made that battle cry, I don’t think I’ve ever heard anything sexi—”

“I failed,” Dwalin growls, cutting Kíli off, and Kíli shuts up out of sheer surprise. Dwalin shakes his head, and the fog of Kíli’s enthusiasm clears just enough for him to realize how truly _angry_ Dwalin looks. Which somehow only makes him hotter. He looks like he’s about to storm out and ravage the city, conquering everything underfoot. One fist tight against his knee, Dwalin runs the other hand over his bald head. It wipes some of the sweat off his tattoos. Kíli wants to trace his tongue over every one of them.

“You did great,” Kíli resumes. “I mean, I knew you were deadly with an axe, but the way you handled that sword—”

“I _lost_!” Dwalin fumes, shaking his head. 

Kíli almost laughs. “You came in second!” And before Dwalin can point out that isn’t first, Kíli reminds him, “Out of _a hundred_ dwarves!”

“I serve the King of the Mountain himself, and I sleep with his heir! If I’m ever going to be worthy of a public courting of a prince, I’ll need to be number one!” He smashes his hand against his leg as though to emphasize his point, but it makes his bicep flex, and that’s all Kíli really sees. He takes a step closer, right into the cloying stench of raw _dwarf_. It turns him on even more. Another step, and his feet are between Dwalin’s. Dwalin looks up at him with burning eyes. 

“You’re being ridiculous,” Kíli notes, which is fun to say, because it’s usually the other way around. “But fine, if you’re that bent out of shape about it, go ahead and wait to win the golden prize. I guess I’ll just pass the silver one onto the next runner up.”

“There is no silver prize,” Dwalin mutters, which is _technically_ true—only the champion was awarded the jewel encrusted helm forged just for the occasion. Kíli always planned on a backup prize, though he wasn’t going to be at all fair about which participant he gave it to. After seeing the way Dwalin fought, he probably would’ve offered it up even had Dwalin placed dead last.

When Dwalin’s eyes squint, Kíli knows he’s seeing the mischievous glint in his prince’s gaze. There’s no room to step closer, so Kíli just lifts one knee up onto the bench, shifting right into Dwalin’s lap, dropping his weight into the hard warmth of Dwalin’s body. He all but purrs, “To tell the truth, I was going to sleep with the runner up... but if you really think second place doesn’t merit anything...”

For a moment, Dwalin just _looks_ at him, face firm and maybe taken aback, maybe even offended. But Kíli can feel the sizeable bulge beneath his rear, and he knows just how to grind his hips to encourage its growth. 

With another meaty growl, Dwalin mutters, “Fine,” and smashes a kiss into Kíli’s mouth—Kíli throws him back onto the floor and gets started on those trousers, ready to _really_ cheer him up.


End file.
